


Pandemic

by lavellanpls



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Other, Sick Character, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2018-12-01 13:13:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11487120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavellanpls/pseuds/lavellanpls
Summary: A collection of mini sickfics, taken fromthese prompts.001. Solas- “It’s Nothing”002. Lavellan- “Don’t Speak”003. Sera- “Stay With Me”





	1. It's Nothing

**001\. Solas**

 

It was a cold. A minor cold. Nothing more.

That did not stop Cassandra from taking a frankly insultingly big step away from him when he coughed discreetly into his hand. She stared at him, startled and horrified, as if he’d just spat up a toad, and asked in a voice far too shrill, “Are you _ill?_ ”

Solas dutifully swallowed down another cough. “It is a cold,” he stated. “A minor cold.”

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed into a steely glare. “A cold?”

“Nothing more.”

She took another entirely unneeded step backward. “Yes,” she said, unconvinced, “a cold.”

Lavellan called something from up ahead on the trail, and he noticed Cassandra walked faster than usual to catch up. His brows creased in a frown. Truly, he thought—it was nothing to be concerned about. The dry mountain air had simply irritated his lungs. It would pass. Of course.

He covered his mouth to muffle another cough, and grimaced at the telltale taste of phlegm at the back of his throat.

 

* * *

 

It was a cold. A… _moderate_ cold.

Nightfall found their party tucked away in the hills of the Hinterlands, their search for bandits on hold. Solas coughed, and this time the sound rattled in his chest. He glared across the campfire. “Really?”

Safely at a distance, his companions huddled together on the other side of camp. They had, it seemed, exiled him. Solas gave an offended huff and tried not to ruin it with a sniffle. “You are all grossly overreacting.”

Lilith apparently thought it necessary to tie a scarf over her nose and mouth. “Maybe,” she said, “but better safe than sorry.”

“I am fine,” he insisted. “I just need to-”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Varric held a stick at arm’s length, brandished like a sword. “Hold up there, Chuckles—that’s far enough.”

“Seriously?”

“You’re _sick,_ ” Cassandra stated.

“It is a-”

“A cold,” Lilith finished, voice muffled behind her scarf barrier. “Yeah, we got that.”

The burn of Solas’ glare was dampened by another coughing fit. Undeterred, he pushed on in as steady a voice as he could muster, “This is wholly unnecessary.”

“You’re not infecting me with that shit,” Varric argued, ducking behind Cassandra’s shoulder as Solas moved to inconspicuously wipe his nose. “You keep your disease on that side of camp, I’ll keep myself on this side.”

“ _It is a cold_.”

“It’s a biohazard,” Lilith corrected. “And I’m not having it today.”

When he took a step closer Cassandra decided it necessary to draw an actual sword. “ _No_ ,” she commanded. “ _You stay there_.”

At a loss, Solas could only stand and stare. “You act as if I have the _blight_.”

“Not the blight,” Lilith corrected. “Probably a flu.”

“It is _not,_ ” Solas insisted, “a _flu_.”

 

* * *

 

 _It was a cold._ A damned _cold_.

Solas chose not to speak to his companions that morning. In part because he was still irritated with their behavior the night before—honestly, the sheer unprofessionalism was _appalling_ —but also in part because his throat hurt terribly. He cleared his throat and tried to mask a wince. Lilith and Cassandra were busy arguing over a map when he politely interjected, “If I may offer my own insight, I believe we were supposed to turn left at…” He trailed off when he realized the two were staring at him. “What?”

“You sound terrible,” Cassandra informed. “Are you sure you don’t want to turn back?”

“ _I am fine_ ,” he rasped.

“Is that right?” Lilith quirked an eyebrow. “Because it looks like you’re bleeding.”

“I…?” Solas touched a hand to his face only to find blood dripping down his upper lip. It appeared he’d suffered a nosebleed. “Ah. Apologies,” he said. “Changes in elevation can often-”

“Elevation my ass,” Lilith interrupted. “Your nose is bleeding because you can’t stop blowing it. Because you’re _sick_. With a _flu_.”

“It is a cold.”

“It’s a flu.”

Oh, _honestly._ “It is not,” he stressed, “a _flu_.”

He tasted blood, and realized with chagrin his lips had cracked.

 

* * *

 

Perhaps his cold was a touch worse than he initially thought. But only, he staunchly vowed, by a touch. While the rest of their party climbed a hill in search of another landmark, Solas hung back, staff gripped tight in his fist, and hoped it wasn’t obvious he was leaning all his weight on it. Varric paused to turn back and level a suspicious glance his way. “Doing alright back there, sicky?”

It took a heavy moment for Solas to regain enough breath to respond. “Fine,” he lied.

“You sure? You’re looking a little paler than usual.”

“ _I am fine_.”

Varric’s stare went from suspicious to concerned. Somehow that felt even worse. “Fine,” he repeated. “…right.”

Solas sealed his lips shut to hold back a hacking cough, and hoped no one noticed he was shaking.

 

* * *

 

“That’s it.” Lavellan planted herself before Solas, hands on her hips, her lips drawn tight in a frown. “We’re turning back.”

Solas heaved a heavy sigh. “I assure you, that won’t be necessary. I-” His protests were cut off when Lilith ripped off her glove to flatten her hand against his forehead.

“You have a fever,” she announced. “We’re going back.”

“It is the _sun_. Not a _fever_.”

“Solas,” she patiently explained, “it’s cold. There’s snow on the mountains. The sun isn’t making you warm. The flu is.”

“It is not a flu.”

Eyes narrowed in a glare, she unceremoniously poked him in the sternum, and looked far too triumphant when he winced. “So,” she asked, “how long ago did the body aches start?”

“I feel fine.”

“You look dead.”

“Just leave him at camp,” Varric yelled. He and Cassandra, it seemed, refused to come within three yards of him. “And wash your hands when you’re done.”

Solas jerked away from Lilith’s touch, face flushed. “Are there not more pressing matters at hand than debates about my temperature?”

“A debate implies there’s more than one possibility,” she said. “This is a statement about your temperature. You have a fever.”

“I do not.”

Lilith remained unconvinced, but slowly nodded. “Fine,” she relented. “But you should know you’re sweating.”

Solas wiped at his brow with an exhausted scowl. “So?”

“You’re also shivering.”

“I-” Hm. “…it is a cold,” he reiterated. “Nothing more.”

Up ahead—much too far up ahead—Varric cupped his hands around his mouth to shout, “Don’t let him breathe on you!”

 

* * *

 

They were only an hour into the day’s journey when Solas had to wave for the others to stop. He shakily lowered himself onto the nearest rock, legs threatening to give out, and took a deep breath that didn’t quite fill his lungs. “A moment, please,” he implored, the burn in his throat turning his voice to a pained whisper.

While Varric slowly backed away, Cassandra grabbed Lilith’s shoulder to keep her from moving any closer. “Are you well, Solas?”

“I only need a moment,” he assured. “To catch my breath.”

“Because you’re sick,” Lilith clarified. “With the flu.”

Solas found it hard not to scowl. “I am not sick.” He gripped his staff with both hands, and slowly pulled his aching body back up. “I assure you,” he insisted, “I am-”

The statement died unfinished. He took a single step before the world faded to a hazy brown, blinked out, and he collapsed to the dirt.

 

* * *

 

Solas awoke to a pair of amber eyes staring directly down at him, horrified and triumphant all at once. “So,” Lilith said, arms crossed before her, “what did we learn today?”

Vision swimming, Solas forced his confession from a cracked and burning throat. “It is possible,” he rasped, “I may have misjudged the severity of this cold.”

“You think that might be a possibility?” She slipped her arm under his to help pull him back to his feet, and threw an expectant look back over her shoulder. “Guys? A little help?”

Faraway, Varric and Cassandra exchanged wary glances. “It looks like you’ve got it handled,” Varric called.

With a frustrated groan, Lilith shouldered her fallen mage close. “Come on, you cowards. We’re going back to camp.”

Neither moved. “Go on,” Cassandra prodded. “We will follow.”

They made it back to camp with only the faintest glow of sunlight left lingering on the horizon—half a day’s journey, wasted. “I assure you,” Solas tried to argue, “this is not necessary.” His argument was severely undermined, unfortunately, by his complete inability to hold himself up. He leaned heavy against Lilith, still dizzy, still at once too hot and too cold. He swallowed down a sticky wave of nausea and tried not to groan at the dull ache of his bones when Lilith carefully lowered him onto his bedroll.

“Just lie down for a while,” Lilith instructed. “I’m gonna get you some water.”

She was halfway across camp when a sneeze stopped her dead in her tracks. She looked up, and into the horrified faces of Varric and Cassandra. “…wait,” she uttered. “No. I swear, I’m-”

“Fine,” Cassandra finished for her. “Yes. I am sure.”

She’d already taken a hasty step backward.

 


	2. Don't Speak

**002\. Lilith**

 

It was a disaster. A tragedy. _A travesty_.

“It’s not,” Lilith croaked, voice a dry whisper, “funny.”

“It’s a bit funny,” Cullen admitted. A scorching glare from Lavellan sent his gaze darting to the floor. “…just a bit.”

Dorian, doing absolutely nothing to suppress a smug grin, countered, “It’s hilarious. Go on—try to say something else. This is just too grand.”

Lilith silently glared.

It appeared—against all logic and effort—that the mighty Inquisitor had fallen.

“I’m gonna kill him,” she vowed. No one could hear her, but she vowed it anyway. “That bald son of a bitch, I’m gonna _kill him_.”

“What was that?” Dorian put a hand to his ear, feigning deep concentration. “I didn’t quite catch it. Speak up.”

Quietly seething, Lilith responded appropriately with a raised middle finger.

She’d soldiered through the coughing, the congestion, the sleepless nights; had drowned herself in soups and suffered the most vile-tasting of potions. She had persevered. She was a _survivor_. And better, she hadn’t missed a single day of work—she drug herself to the war room each morning without fail, oversaw ongoing construction projects each afternoon, and at night she melted into an aching, shivering puddle beneath a suffocating mountain of blankets and blew her nose until her brain rattled. But never, not _ever,_ did she falter.

And then her body went and betrayed her.

She forced air through her ravaged throat, but produced nothing but a hoarse sort of wheeze. She tried to say, _“Fuck,”_ but ended up just kind of…squeaking.

Their meeting that morning was supposed to be on new training tactics, but presently her advisors seemed stuck on a different topic.

“Inquisitor,” Josephine beseeched, “please—you simply cannot carry on your duties while ill. You have already pushed yourself too far. You will do more harm to your body than good if you do not rest.”

Cullen was quick to nod in agreement. “Take a day off; I’m sure we can handle anything new that comes our way.”

“Beg all you like,” Leliana blandly stated. She busied herself rifling through newly delivered reports, disinterested in the debate at hand. “She won’t listen.”

Lilith pointed at her and vigorously nodded, as if to say, _“Yeah, what she said.”_

“Leliana,” Josephine chastised, “you are not helping.”

Their spymaster looked unimpressed. “If a mountain falling on her did not stop her, do you truly expect a flu will?”

Lilith exaggerated applause. Josephine only glared.

“Leliana, if you have nothing helpful to contribute, I must ask that you- Dorian, will you stop that!”

The mage hung back, arms crossed, looking insufferably delighted as he failed to muffle low laughter. “What?” he asked in a mockery of innocence. “I think she’s doing a bang-up job.”

“This is an _advisor_ meeting; what business do you even have here?”

“I’m here for emotional support,” he quipped. “Don’t you feel supported, Lilith? Say nothing if you agree.” At Lilith’s wordless glare, he flashed Josephine a smug grin. “See? She loves it.”

Lilith snatched up Josephine’s writing board to furiously scribble a reply.

_THIS IS A TRAVESTY,_ she scrawled out. _A SHAM. A MOCKERY._

“A traveshamockery, if you will,” Dorian supplied.

Lilith pointed to herself, then to Dorian, and furiously drug her finger across her throat.

“I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand what you’re trying to say. Are you planning on buying me a necklace?”

Lilith returned to her board to write in bolded, all capital letters, _YOU DEMON_.

“Inquisitor,” Josephine pressed on, “there is nothing you can assist with in your present state. Please, you _must_ rest. This is precisely the type of situation you have advisors for. We can manage a day without you, I promise. You need rest.”

Lilith wrote something out and circled it three times for good measure before presenting it: _I’LL REST WHEN I’M DEAD_

“I told you,” Leliana stated matter-of-factly. “Shall I fetch more paper? I’m sure I can find someone to read her statements aloud.”

“ _No_ ,” Josephine commanded, “you will not.”

Lilith downed what was left of a cup of tea—her fourth that morning—and wrote out, _AM FINE. MORE TEA. EXTRA HONEY. WILL WRITE._

_“No!_ ” Josephine commanded. “You will not!”

“Oh, come now,” Dorian chided, “let the woman work. At the very least we’ll all be entertained.”

Without warning—without a word—Lilith turned, took his face in both hands, pulled him close, and licked a wet stripe up the side of his face. Her voice cracked, a dry whisper: “ _Suffer_.”

Frozen in absolute, unabashed horror, Dorian looked ready to die.

Good.

“ _Ugh!_ That is- ! You are _disgusting!_ Are you _mad?_ ”

In lieu of a response, Lilith simply opened her mouth and menacingly gurgled.

“This is biological warfare!” he shrieked. “Someone, quick—give me something to wipe this off with. Ugh, of all the vile…”

Silently, stoically, Lilith spit into her hand and placed it directly onto his face.

Dorian didn’t exactly scream, but he sure got close. “ _What-_ ?! Ah! _Eugh,_ pff- ft- _Stop! Kaffas,_ you little savage! _Pleh,_ pff, Maker…! Someone make her stop!”

Josephine stood frozen in place, too horrified to intervene, while Cullen tried desperately to pretend he wasn’t laughing. Leliana simply shrugged. “Sorry, but you brought this upon yourself.”

Dorian finally managed to wrestle her away, held back at arm’s length with a firm grip on her shoulders, but the damage had already been done. Half his mustache was slicked upward, glistening with vengeful saliva. “You awful little barbarian!” he accused. “You’re supposed to be the leader of an Inquisition! Are you _twelve?_ ”

In response, she loudly sucked back snot and readied to launch it out her mouth.

“Fine!” He shoved her away, panicked. “You win! Ugh, you monster. I’m leaving. I’m _leaving!_ ”

He dashed out the door, still muttering increasingly shriller curses, while Lilith calmly turned, picked up her writing board, and wrote out, _ANYONE ELSE?_

Cullen was laughing too hard to reply. Josephine only sighed, defeated. “Fine,” she ground out. “Carry on, then, Inquisitor.”

“I’ll send for more paper,” Leliana said.

 

* * *

 

Dorian was still wiping his face when Sera nearly barreled into him in the hall. “Was looking for you!” she said, excited. “Guess who won a stupid archery contest and gets free drinks for a night? _Me!_ Hah! Shove it Cabot, you lop-eared wanker! Who’s the amateur now? So, you wanna help me clean him out? It'll be _stupid_ fun.” She paused her deluge of information to cock her head in a wary frown. “What’s all over your face?”

“You truly do not want to know.”

Before he could think to stop her, she reached to push at his mustache with her thumb, leaving both sides plastered upward in a wet, sticky fan. “There,” she announced, “now you match.”

“…um. You might want to wash your-”

“You know, it almost looks less stupid this way. Almost.”

Dorian decided not to finish that sentence. “You know what? You’re right. Drinks sound splendid. You’ve earned it.”

“Sure a shite I have; I told you I’m the best.” She rubbed at her eye, and frowned at the slow spread of his smile. “What are you grinning about?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Absolutely nothing. Let’s get drinks.”


	3. Stay With Me

**003\. Sera**

 

Sera didn’t need help. Sera didn’t _want_ help. She’d gone her whole friggin life without help, thanks; she sure as shite wasn’t looking for a hand now. But…ugh.

“Oi, Beardy. _Psst!_ ” She cracked her bedroom door open just wide enough to stick a beckoning hand through. Her voice was an urgent whisper, raspy and low. “C’mere!”

Sat innocuously at a nearby table, Blackwall slowly lowered his pint. He glanced around the tavern as if there was anyone else she could possibly be talking to, and Sera couldn’t help but wonder how the frig he got away with pretending to be a Warden for so long.

“ _Yes,_ ” she hissed. The sound drifted like a ghostly whisper across the empty tavern. “ _You,_ idiot!”

Blackwall heaved a great and tired sigh, but stood.

Sera was careful to stay hidden behind her door until he’d fully crossed the threshold. Then at the last second she slammed the door shut, swiftly sealing him inside. “Okay,” she rushed, “before you get weird: don’t.”

“Maker, Sera, what is it this- ?” Blackwall turned, and stopped suddenly short. “Maker’s _balls,_ ” he marveled, eyes gone wide, “are you alright?”

Piss. She _told_ him not to get weird.

Sera—or the drippy red-eyed fever gremlin that sort of looked like Sera—did her very best to glare. “I’m fine, you tit, I’m just sick.”

 _Sick_ was an understatement. With her rubbed-raw nose and cracked lips, ‘dead’ seemed a more fitting description. The beginnings of a rattling cough gurgled low in her throat as she inhaled. “Just got a stupid bug,” she wheezed. “That’s all.”

“Have you got a fever?” he ventured.

“What? No. Maybe? I don’t know. That’s not the point.”

“Have you got a bloody _pulse?_ ”

Sera found the energy to glower even while she swayed on her feet. “Shut it, you! Since when are you a…heal-y…medicine…person?”

“…a doctor?”

“ _Shut it!_ ”

Sera had fought baddies alongside Blackwall more times than she could count. Had watched him charge all brave-like right into a dragon nest, yelling his head off about _glory_ and _valor_ and all that grand, hero-y rubbish, which made it all the more stupid that a hard sniffle made him take a fearful step backward. A cave stuffed full of giant spiders was all well and good, apparently, but stand too close to a little snot? Oh, no, can’t have _that_.

The way he drew his hands close to his chest to avoid accidentally touching anything made Sera wish she could vomit on command. “Should you be, I don’t know, drinking soup or something?”

“ _Blech_.” She pulled a disgusted face, the effect only exaggerated by the sheer amount of snot dripping from her nose. “Nope, no, no, no, uh uh, no more food. I’m done blowing chunks.”

“That’s…vivid. Maybe some tea, then? Or…I could call for a healer, if you’d like.”

“Ugh, I don’t need a healer; I’m not _stupid._ I know what an idiot _flu_ is. You’re sick for a bit, then you’re better. It’s just…a thing that happens to regular people, yeah?”

“That’s- Well, you wouldn’t be wrong.”

“I’ve had a flu before,” she stated, and sounded almost proud. “Had lots of stuff—sore throats, earaches, those itchy face-spots you get when you’re little. Got over all those, didn’t I? And didn’t need help for any of it. People get sick, and then they get better. Or they don’t get better, and they get dead. But this isn’t a dead one; just a regular slimy one. I think.”

Blackwall pressed back against the wall so firmly Sera thought he might punch a person-shaped hole right through it. “Was there a point in there I was supposed to pick up on?” he asked.

The hateful burn of Sera’s scowl was dampened by a trembling lip. Stupid shivers and their…shivering.

“The point is I don’t need help,” she snapped. “Just need some fun, is all. Want to, I don’t know, play cards or something? I feel like death and can’t sleep for shit. Oh, you know how to play Diamondback, right?”

“I do,” he affirmed. “Diamondback, Chanson d'Argent, Wicked Grace, Dead Man's Tricks—uh. You’ve got some…” He motioned to his own upper lip, stare stuck on her face.

“Some…mustache?”

“Mucus,” he corrected. “Right…all over your face. Here, I’ve got a handkerchief you can-”

Sera drug her nose across the full length of her forearm, and Blackwall quietly returned his handkerchief to his pocket.

“Right,” he said, voice clipped gruff. “You got it.” Frozen in horror and fascination, he watched her hack phlegm into her hand and wipe it on her pantleg. His cringe radiated all the way to his shoulders. “Or maybe let’s _not_ play cards.”

Perplexed, Sera looked down. Her frown turned tragic. “…oh. Right. Smart.”

“I should probably leave you alone to get some sleep.”

“Oh, come _on!_ ” This time frustration caved into reluctant desperation, edges softening from argument to plea. “Okay, cards is out, but we can- I can always- Uh… _Uh- !_ ”

The abrupt, thunderous _sneeze_ that erupted from her was violent enough to knock her back against a stack of baskets, an explosion that felt like it rocketed out of her very _soul_. A chorus of frenzied barking echoed up from the yard. Without even meaning to Sera unthinkingly shouted, _“What?!”_

Blackwall once again offered a handkerchief. This time Sera actually accepted it.

“Look,” she tried again, congested and miserable. “I just feel bad, alright? Could you hang around for a while? We don’t have to play cards. Just…keep me company or whatever, yeah?”

The rigidness of his posture eased, reluctance melting away. “Right, I can do company. Why don’t you sit down— _over there_ —and I’ll…tell you a story, eh? Got some good ones I was saving for the tavern. I ever tell you the one about _Lady Marigold?”_

Sera crumpled listlessly into a disheveled pile of blankets, groaning through another wave of nausea. “She had a wooden leg,” she muttered miserably into a silken pillow stolen from Vivienne’s room. “Yeah, you told me that one.”

“Damn.  The exotic dog merchant in Val Royeaux?”

“They were rats,” she finished. “Yep. Already told it.”

“They were weasels, not rats, but alright, not that one… Are you sure you don’t want me to make you some tea? My mother used to swear by ginger tea. Said it did more for a cold than any fancy potion could.”

“Bring me that nasty tea and I’m tossing it right in your beard,” she threatened. “And stop standing around like that; makes me feel like you’re visiting me in an infirmary, or something. Sit down and be _normal_.”

Unable to argue, Blackwall drug a wobbly stool from the corner and took a hesitant seat at Sera’s side. “Fine,” he relented. “Not a story, then. Suppose I could tell you some good ol’ Warden tales, if you’re up for it.”

“You’re not even a Warden,” she croaked, words muffled by her pillow. She lifted her pounding head for a moment, cracked lips puckered in a frown. Her silken pillow bore a perfect, sweaty imprint of her face. “No offense.”

“None taken.”

She flopped onto her back, releasing a miserable groan that crescendoed in a hacking cough. “Tell me a joke, yeah?”

“A joke,” he repeated. “…alright, sure. Oh, I’ve got a good one for you.” He shifted eagerly in his seat, posture straightening. “Heard it from a Chevalier in Tantervale one year during the Grand Tourney. Had me laughing ‘til my guts hurt. Let me see if I remember it…” He purposefully cleared his throat. “So: One day an Orlesian architect decides to build a house for himself, made entirely out of polished marble brick. Being Orlesian, of course, he has to have everything just perfect—everything straight and even, not a thing out of place. Precise as can be. Going to be the envy of all his neighbors, he says.”

Sera rolled her eyes, a sneering scoff rattling into a wet cough. “Sounds like an Orlesian, alright…”

“But if this project of his is truly going to be perfect, he thinks, it’s got to be perfect all the way from start to finish. So when he drafts up the plans he calculates exactly how many bricks it will take, right down to the last inch, and orders exactly that many bricks. When they arrive he spends hours counting them. He double counts, then triple counts.”

“Right, is this gonna be a counting-joke? ‘Cause numbers aren’t funny.”

“Just let me finish,” he insisted. “When he’s satisfied all his numbers add up, he gets to building. Now, all through the construction he makes sure to watch the workmen to see that no bricks are wasted. But when the house is finally complete, he finds there’s one brick left over. The man is baffled—he rechecks his numbers, runs back through all his calculations, but everything’s tallied and as it should be. And yet, despite his perfect plan, he’s left with exactly one polished marble brick. Growing more and more frustrated, he checks again and again, until finally, in a fit of fury, he takes the extra brick and throws is into the air. It disappears.”

The way he dropped the last sentence was weighted with expectancy, his smile positively giddy with self-satisfaction as Sera merely stared on in silence. Finally, after a heavy blink, she asked, “And?’

His smile wilted. “…and?”

“And _what?_ Where’s the funny bit? It’s not a joke unless there’s a funny bit at the end!”

“That, uh. That is the end.”

“Then it’s not a joke, is it? That’s just a weird, not-funny story!”

“It’s, ah…been a while since I heard it, I guess. Think I left something out…”

“You think?”

“Alright, alright, let me try again. Got a better one, this time.”

Sera collapsed backward into her blanket-nest, arms crossed. “You friggin better,” she warned. “Piss-awful joke teller, you are…”

Undeterred, Blackwall began again. “So a Fereldan woman is sharing a carriage with an Orlesian nobleman on their way through the Frostback Mountains. The woman—being true-born Fereldan—holds a dog in her lap. Being of two very different backgrounds, neither passenger speaks to each other, until the Orlesian man pulls out a cigar and lights it. The woman’s dog begins to cough. Polite as can be, the Fereldan woman asks the man to put out his cigar, but the Orlesian—all primped and powdered—doesn’t take kindly to being ordered about by a Fereldan commoner, and instead of answering the good lady blows smoke right into her face.”

“ _Poncy tosser!”_

“Just wait, just wait—now the woman is furious, and rightly so. She asks again for him to put out his cigar, still polite of course, because she’s a proper lady and won’t be ruffled by some pompous Orlesian brute. Again the man refuses. ‘This cigar cost more than that mongrel of yours,’ he says. ‘Why not crush _it_ out?’ And then he leans down, and this time blows a big puff of smoke right into her dog’s face.”

“Ohhh I’d have given him something to put in his stupid mouth, alright…would have put an arrow right in his _teeth_ …”

“Now she may be a lady, but she’s still Fereldan, and Fereldans don’t just sit back and take that kind of disrespect. Without another word she pulls open the carriage window, plucks the cigar right out of his hand, and tosses it out into the snow. The Orlesian man is stunned. Furious, he snatches up the woman’s dog, and before she can stop him chucks the poor little bugger straight out the window.”

“Arsehole!” Sera gasped.

“Arsehole indeed. The woman isn’t having any of it—she yells for the driver to stop, and the carriage lurches to a halt. She steps down into the snow, in the pitch-black of night, and calls the dog’s name. Against all odds, a bark echoes back. The dog comes trotting up the road, unharmed. And as it gets closer, she sees it’s got something in its mouth…”

By then Sera was leaning forward, red-rimmed eyes gleaming. “ _The cigar!”_ she guessed.

“No,” Blackwall said, and let a heavy beat of silence pass before continuing, “It’s a marble brick.”

For a weighty stretch of seconds the two stared at each other in complete silence, expressions frozen in place. Unspeaking. Unblinking. Unmoving.

The shrill burst of Sera’s mad cackle set the dogs outside barking again.

“ _So! Stupid!”_ She gasped between rattling howls of laughter, eyes welling with tears. Her ribs already ached. “Friggin… _brick, pfffffbt!_ Oh, I’m gonna- _brick!”_ Another explosion of mad cackling left her lungs burning, lips cracking in a hysterical grin. “So! Frigging! Stu- _uh- !”_

Without warning, without time to prepare, Sera unleashed a soul-shattering sneeze directly into Blackwall’s face.

She instantly slapped her hand over her mouth, eyes blown wide. “…shit,” she finally uttered. “Sorry.”

Blackwall took a deep, deep breath. Wiped his eye. Sighed. “Honestly? I probably deserved it for that joke.”

“It _was_ a good one.”

“It’s a great one,” he agreed. “So—Diamondback, then, was it? May as well hand me the cards. Maker knows you can’t shuffle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if I had to hear this terrible joke then so do you


End file.
